


Fortune is in a Hurricane Glass

by Spylace



Series: Odachi [7]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: Hibari’s never had to hold on to the things he loved.





	Fortune is in a Hurricane Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to [The Art of Clapping With One Hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736542) and [Like a Sand Castle Crashing at Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736371).

Miura Haru is beautiful, heart-faced with bee-stung lips and eyes like disks of dark honey. She is the very image of a virgin bride a man desires on his wedding night—truly a testament to what his family has done to push their schemes into fruition.

Even her daemon, the ruby-studded Uzumaki, is a vision to behold, more like a piece of hand-crafted ornament than a living, breathing creature of flesh, blood and dust. Hibari can tell Tamizuki is disappointed. Like him, she is a distinctly tactile creature whether she is sticking her spines somewhere they don’t belong or pawing at someone in genuine affection.

Nothing will come out of this—he thinks as he curls his fingers, hands itching for the familiar grip of his tonfa. But the heavy weight of his weapons are gone, Sasagawa Ryohei confiscated them in a preemptive attempt to keep their worthless family intact.

If Hibari had it his way, there would be no wedding or ceremony. Instead of the sable-haired girl just entering the blush of womanhood, he would have an equal sheathed in dark silks. He may tolerate the elders and the council for their usefulness—some, he even respects. But he will never forgive them for this betrayal, for what they have made him today.

‘Hush’ Tamizuku whispers, nosing him delicately as though asking for another glass of wine. ‘This is the bed we have made; we must now lie in it.’ Sasagawa has the gall to look at him with sympathy and Hibari wants to punch him in the face.

His wife stands before him, her face upturned and waiting for a kiss. Briefly, Uzumaki lands on his daemon’s many quills, imparting her vows that only he knows. The words, the not-words, the odd prickle of having another dare lay a hand on his daemon causes him to recoil in disgust. But Tamizuki looks on serenely, a simple lavender ribbon around her right paw.

Haru is beautiful, dutiful, female, and in time she may bare him the sons and daughters he needs, children who will carry on his name. But all Hibari wants to do is leave this place and find a herd of herbivores to take his frustrations out on. All he can think about is the bright glare of the sun in his eyes.

 

Yamamoto at fifteen is young and sweet, his lips caught easily when he stalks close, pushing him up against the frosted glass. A stuttered protest bubbles up and dies in his lungs, easily quenched when Tamizuki purrs and rubs her face against his bare ankles. It is an interesting sound and Hibari makes note of it as he turns him around, a hand wandering past the loosely frayed drawstrings to keep him in place.

He hooks two fingers between Yamamoto’s jaws, the younger boy gagging before biting down. The pain is exquisite and Hibari thrusts, riding on the thin, wet undershirt and the folds of his yukata as Yamamoto writhes and shudders in time with his strokes, gasping every time his cock is exposed from the protective sheath of his hand.

He spends himself against the glass pane and the servants may wonder what has happened here. But they will keep their silence and they theirs. Almost lazily, Hibari mouths the line of his neck and nibbles on a quivering cord, contemplating what it would be like to sink his teeth in the golden skin—if it tastes exactly the same as did that sunny afternoon when Mukuro threw him off the rooftop and Yamamoto jumped after him like a common herbivore, trusting the wind and his daemon to guide them all to safety.

Yamamoto sucks in a sharp breath when his grip becomes uncomfortably tight, nails scrabbling across the glass as he tries to break free. Hibari slams him back against the window and holds him there, pressed lengthwise against the taller boy with his cock still grinding into the small of his back. And suddenly, Yamamoto stiffens, his knuckles turning white. Bonelessly, Koujiro flops down on the ground and whines “Kyouya—”

Sasagawa stares at them from the opposite end of the compound, his face pale and his daemon looking furtively for a place to bury her head in. Yamamoto looks torn, his neck livid with teeth marks and his pants stained. Hibari lets him go; he has to.

“Go” He says gruffly. The boy and his daemon follows him with frail uncertainty, their bare feet scuffing against the hardwood floor. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

Grim-faced and wary, Sasagawa wisely chooses not to confront him. Instead, he brings mediator and sets up a meeting with him and the rest of the Muratori family. Hibari can’t help but pay grudging admiration to his interference, for bringing Yamamoto Mayuu of all people in front of the elders. The men and women of Muratori are caught flat-footed by her candor, angry and scandalized by the time they are done. Tamizuki smiles into his knee but her joy is brief. They are given an ultimatum and Takeshi gives him a lingering kiss to the cheek before leaving.

Neither look back.

Every now and then, he receives brief reports of his general whereabouts and secretive calls, meetings closely monitored by the rest of his family. But he cannot begrudge Sasagawa for his decisions. This is what he promised when he took on the mantle of the Muratori head. It doesn’t come as a surprise a few years later in April, a call comes from Italy.

“We have to go to him.”

His daemon spits in protest when he puts the receiver down, cutting off whatever stream of words Yamamoto had left to say. And she begs him, Tamizuki who has never asked anything more of him than who he was, never questioned his predatory nature and the aloofness that came with being a bastard of the Muratori family. “He is not Namimori, he is neither the sky nor the earth; Kyouya, he cannot wait forever.”

Calmly, he holds her in his lap the way he hasn’t been able to since they were young, his hand speared by her thorny hide and rivulets of blood painting her quills red. She weeps quietly in a blank and broken way that is disturbing to behold. But they are Muratori, the family, the flock, transient and fleeting. Yamamoto cannot wait for them; they will not wait for him.

Tamizuki cries as though someone’s carving out pieces of her heart.

Hibari does not but it’s a near thing.

The year after, he gets married to Miura Haru. Everyone congratulates him for his choice. Very few know he never had one in the first place.

 

“I’m not drunk.”

It has only been few hours since the meeting was adjourned around midnight, the moon still fixed high up in the sky. Yamamoto Takeshi stands in his doorway, swaying like the branches of a great willow tree. Tamizuki wrinkles her face in distaste when she catches the scent of spirits clinging to their forms. Crouching down into a playful bow, Koujiro opens his mouth in a lopsided smile and snaps the air. Wordlessly, Hibari steps aside and allows them to enter.

He has played this scenario many times and more besides, always in different locations, some even while lying next to his wife in bed. Reality is far bitter with a sour note of the stringy meat Vongola served at dinner. Hibari has killed people for less and he strikes Yamamoto across the face, sneering when his head snaps back with a stifled grunt. In the past, even if he had been bodily dunked in a vat of distilled wine, he would have easily seen the blow coming and dodged.

But before he can follow through on expatriating the younger man from his room, a trickle of heat brushes against his left calf and curls against the back of his knee. “We didn’t come here to fight.”—Koujiro playfully nudges Yamamoto’s hand, looking for a scratch behind his pointed ears. The daemon’s words are slurred but his eyes remain crafty and clear. Hibari feels a slow flush climb his spine and with an irritated snort, takes a step back.

“You are mistaken then,” he says, lips curling. “You should not have come here and not expect a fight.” He pulls him forward, thumb brushing against the livid welt across his lip. His tongue darts out, sampling the offer of blood before capturing his mouth, devouring it. Yamamoto lets out a small whine of pleasure and their daemons wind themselves at their feet, touching and feeling each other with no boundaries given.

Hibari does not believe in gods; he knows that their world does not allow for one and witches have something men will never understand. But he thinks that Yamamoto is something he could worship, his body like a corpus laid out on a cross and the unsung words in his mouth hymns to a long forgotten world. He would have torn apart anyone who tried to separate them.

Yamamoto presses down on him, arms shaking and uncertain with his weight and their new dimensions. They struggle, his hips sliding between his thighs and the jut of bone digging into flesh; two men and their daemons, trying to fit together when what they want is a certain impossibility. Impatient, Hibari rolls them over and sinks down unerringly on the last inches. Automatically, Yamamoto’s hands find his waist and hold on, his grip bruising, steadying him as Koujiro clambers onto his back, leaving bloody gouges in his awake.

The daemon preens on top of his head, deadly claws tangling with his uncut hair. He veils his eyes with feathers and keeps him from learning, from seeing, from memorizing the changes wrought between them, then and now. The younger man has finally grown into his frame, his shoulder’s wider, arms slightly thicker and his waist slimmer still. There are scars, grooves and divots that had not been there the last time the other man had been in his keeping. Sawada Tsunayoshi makes a poor master and he will regret it. Hibari tastes his pulse and tears into it, bloodying his sheets in their fervor—to mark what is his and erase those who came before.

Yamamoto returns his branding enthusiastically as though he had never gone, the bedsprings singing to their frantic mating and suddenly, Hibari is sinking into the mattress, his daemon laughing under her breath with Koujiro wrapped around her as sleek as an otter. The younger man leans down on him, their faces brushing close and it occurs to Hibari that he may never want this to end.

 

At dawn, Hibari struggles to rise. The walls are slashed in violets, a persistent layer of smoke clinging to the air. Yamamoto continues to stroke his hair even as his stirs, the other hand occupied with a lit cigarette half-finished on his tongue. Hibari invites the poison into his lungs in rapid breaths, numb to the world, numb to everything else but the heat of Yamamoto’s palm on his head and Koujiro’s bird-frail form resting on his spine. Beside him, Tamizuki rattles her quills in an effort to keep sleep at bay. Hibari lifts a hand and drops it into the younger man’s lap.

“You’re awake.” And at that moment, Hibari wants nothing more than to bite him to death, to tear at his tongue for his insolence and drag him back to Japan. But he has no more strength than a day-old kitten learning to suck at his mother’s tit. He draws in another mouthful of cloying-sweet air and rasps, “yes”.

Stiff-legged, Koujiro gets to his feet and licks his lips nervously. Praying for forgiveness, he shrinks from his lanky canine form to the stocky form of a porcupine, long quills budding from individual hairs, Tamizuki’s twin down to the last...

Hibari exhales and swears an oath. He promises the two that once he and Tamizuki are up, there will be no force on heaven or earth to protect them from his divine retribution. Yamamoto laughs it off like it is a joke, pulling Koujiro to his hind feet and making him stand. The daemon protests but grudgingly submits to the treatment, curling up when his vulnerable stomach is touched and prodded by a curious finger.

“You know, ever since we met for the first time...” The man starts, his eyes far away. “I could never see myself with you, isn’t that weird?” Koujiro stretches and coils into a serpent, venom gleaming from his fangs. “But I wanted to, I...” Yamamoto kisses him along the hairline, right above where Koujiro marked him, throbbing lividly behind his ear. “...I’ll tell you later.”

But there will be no later. Even without a sight, even without a tenth of a blood that Yamamoto has, Hibari knows this very well. He turns his head, flashing the whites of his eyes. With a sweep of fabric, they are gone.

He and Tamizuki know they won’t ever see them again.

 

By the time they can stand on their own, it is over. Mukuro remains the only splash of color in the lime-washed hallways, stark against the white backdrop, baptized in blood. His daemon, the gunmetal grey, flickers her tongue in time with his torpid heartbeat, so slow that he might as well have died where he stood, and barely raises her head when he punches him across the face.

The illusionist staggers back a step, wiping the blood off the corner of his lips. It smears against the hollow of his cheeks and mixes with what is already there, flaking off in dark flecks that seem to hold all the secrets of the world.

At last, he seems to realize that Hibari is here and he chuckles, even when his oddly painted eyes gaze vaguely through the diamond-patterned window. He asks bluntly, “Did you get what you wanted?”

Later, when Vongola Famiglia is done for, having lost two more guardians for the price of one, Mukuro replies, “I don’t think I ever knew.”


End file.
